


29. It’s okay to cry.

by KittenKin



Series: Drabble Prompt Fills [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Crying, Love Confessions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:54:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23148826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittenKin/pseuds/KittenKin
Summary: Sherlock had expected a blow-up upon his return from the dead of course. Something explosive, like a quick summer storm; fast and furious but also refreshing when it was done with.Instead John was sitting at the kitchen table, asking him to be the best man at his wedding.
Relationships: Mary Morstan/John Watson (mentioned), Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Drabble Prompt Fills [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1605655
Comments: 10
Kudos: 153
Collections: Chelle's Fic Recommendations





	29. It’s okay to cry.

Nothing else with John went as planned; why should this?

He’d nurtured - clung to - dreams of returning to their old life; their domestic routines, their oddly compatible and complimentary ways. Sherlock measuring trust in how wary John was of the cups of tea and coffee he made, and John - based on the self-satisfied smiles - measuring it by how many bites of food and hours of sleep he could cajole Sherlock into. He’d banked on there being a blow-up upon his return from the dead of course; something explosive and emotional but also over quickly. Like a quick summer storm; fast and furious but also refreshing when it was done with.

Instead John was sitting at the kitchen table, asking him to be his best man at his wedding.

If it hadn’t knocked him back so far he might have experienced frustration at this unexpected development. For heaven’s sake he’d only just this morning been able to stretch and yawn without searing nerve pain and the nightmares were finally started to ebb - just slightly, hardly a statistically significant amount really, but still enough for hope - and he’d hoped that maybe, just maybe, he was starting to feel like himself again, like he didn’t have to put so much damn effort into pretending to be okay. But his heart had gotten the jump on his brain at this surprise attack, and Sherlock was now mostly offline.

What few brain cells were still functional made an effort and rallied together to scrounge through the mind palace for whatever they could find of Best Man Duties, focusing on tasks that could be accomplished with enough time and money and effort. Those were assets that he was certain of. He wasn’t ready to calculate whether or not he would have the heart to go through with it all.

Ring selection was a moot point; he had missed ( _so much, so many chances, his last opportunity_ ) the window quite badly, there. Some few social gatherings with whatever other groomsmen John wished would have to be organized, and of course the penultimate event; the stag do. He felt himself come back to life a bit at the thought of getting John fitted for a proper suit and walking him through all of the options of style and cut and how silk hugged and wool hung. He lingered a bit over the thought of a sensuously soft cravat nestled under John’s chin, then moved on to the need to coordinate colors with the florist, who would also need to be someone he could entrust with the decoration of the church, where he would stand just behind and to the side of John, and…

…watch him, bright and beaming and beautiful…

…watch him turn his back on Sherlock…

…watch him marry…

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = 

John quirked an eyebrow at how Sherlock seemed to freeze in place, like a robot ( _you machine!_ ) that had just drained the last of its batteries. He waited, bobbed his head a bit to see if motion would trigger any reaction, called his friend’s name, and waved.

Nothing.

He propped his chin on one hand and wondered how long he’d have to wait before it would be excusable to slip some ice cubes past Sherlock’s collar, then frowned and straightened up as Sherlock…welled up and overflowed. It wasn’t anything as energetic as crying; there were no sobs, no hiccups, no wild gestures. But huge tears tumbled one after the other over Sherlock’s cheeks, racing down his face and blobbing off his chin, fast as rain.

John swore and bolted up and over, grabbing ( _still too thin under now ever-present layers_ ) and getting ready to catch in case a complete collapse was imminent. They thankfully stayed upright and John - never the Idea Man in the first place - fell back on awkward humor now that he found himself knee-deep in unexpected emotion.

“Guessing these aren’t happy tears?” he joked, patting awkwardly at a tricep. Watery eyes blinked rapidly, knocking yet more tears loose, then fixed on him, wide like they were surprised to find him there.

Sherlock sucked in a quick, startled breath, then broke down on the exhale.

“C- ca- ca-” Sherlock was near to hyperventilating while shaking his head - shaking from head to toe in fact - and John began inching toward panic at this completely unexpected turn the conversation had taken.

“Jesus, Sherlock, _breathe_.”

“ _Can’t,_ ” Sherlock finally cried, gripping at John in turn. “I can’t, I _can’t_ , please don’t make me watch John _please_.” 

John stared, not quite sure if the wedding was still the topic at hand. Surely being asked to be the best man for a wedding couldn’t be connected to this reaction no matter how many dots there were in between.

Surely.

“I’m so sorry John I’m _so sorry_. All I could think of then was keeping you safe and alive. I didn’t realize what I was _doing_ to you; I didn’t _know!_ “

It seemed like the universe was granting a hasty, angry wish of John’s in particularly ironic and cruel manner; making Sherlock understand suddenly what he’d done to John that day at Bart’s with horrible, crystalline clarity. And instead of taking grim satisfaction, he just stared in horror as Sherlock crumbled under the pain.

“I didn’t know, John, _please_ I’m so sorry. I didn’t know what it was like to really lose someone who was so much of my life. But I know now and I know it’s too late and you’re so angry but John _please_ , please don’t make me watch you leave me, _please_ …”

This was…

This wasn’t…

John couldn’t think, couldn’t process, couldn’t take in this flood of tears and begging and pain and love and he just _could not_ right now, so on auto-pilot he began steering them out of the kitchen and over to the sofa, as if location had been the problem. As if sitting instead of standing would fix everything. Could fix anything. Could help at all.

But a drowning man would clutch at a straw, and an overwhelmed John Watson would politely ask a dying man if he wanted a seat, if he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

He got Sherlock to sit, and then forced him to drink two glasses of water; partly to occupy his esophagus with something other than sobs and gasps, and half to give himself a few minutes in which to process.

The few minutes turned into rather a lot of minutes, as they let a heavy sort of silence creep over them both, broken only by Sherlock’s hitching breaths and scattered sniffles. They both held one empty glass each, and sat knee to knee on the sofa, staring at nothing.

After enough time and bewilderment, John cleared his throat.

“Sherlock? Um, listen. I need to ask you something, and–”

“John, I–” Shaky, shaken, barely held together. John was unable bear to hear Sherlock Fucking Holmes reduced to such wet-kitten vulnerability, and him the proximate cause.

“Listen, kay?” he interrupted desperately. “Just listen. This may be the most important conversation you and I ever have so pay attention, and…and be honest. Two questions; yes or no is all I need. But I definitely need you to be truthful. All right?”

A hiccup and cautious nod. John breathed in, breathed out, and then sucked in another breath.

“Would you rather I didn’t marry Mary? Don’t correct my grammar; just…just nod or shake.”

Two more big fat tears were shaken loose, and John gently knuckled them away. It made Sherlock shiver and sigh and close his eyes.

A tiny nod.

Right, okay. Time for the game ender.

He hadn’t been able to bear Sherlock’s death, and Sherlock couldn’t face John’s marriage, and perhaps there _were_ dots that connected it all…

“Is it because you love me?”

John held his breath and waited, then had to empty his lungs in a big gust and resume breathing. He watched Sherlock’s expression crinkle and crumple and fold in on itself like Sherlock was attempting to implode and disappear like a dying star, and decided to clarify and hopefully help things along a bit.

“Sherlock? Is…is it _one of_ the reasons? Er…Jesus this sounds stupid but…basically I’m asking if you’re in love with me. Um. At all.”

Sherlock’s hands were already bloodless-tight around his cup, and now they squeaked even tighter. John thought he could hear the molecules grinding together and becoming something new.

Finally…a single nod, and then Sherlock’s face remained dropped low. Another tear pinged softly off the glass.

John, to his eternal and undying shame, just sat and stared and let that sink in until another nearly inaudible ping shocked him out of the previous shock to his system. Then, in a move that was a horrifically malformed love-child of pragmatism and affection, clinked the empty water glass in his own hands into the one Sherlock was holding before giving up on himself as a lost cause and knocking both cups to the floor. His life was a comedy and tragedy and action-romance-fantasy all at once. It was grotesque and wonderful.

He grabbed a startled Sherlock and dragged him into a clumsy embrace, and held him tight until he felt in control of his vocal chords.

“I lied; I have one more question,” he mumbled into Sherlock’s shoulder. “If I, um, if I promise to break things off with Mary, can I move back in?”

Locked together as they were, Sherlock couldn’t actually nod or shake his head, and John was probably squeezing him too tight for speech to boot, but the detective shuddered and sobbed and hugged him back, and that was good enough for the moment.


End file.
